The Night of the Garbled Gordon
by SilverShadow44
Summary: When Artemus swallows a drug intended to target a diplomat, he and Jim have less than three days to find the antidote - or Arte will lose the gift of gab forever! Now in chapters to correct spacing issues - thanks for your patience!
1. The Chalice from the Palace

Special thanks to the Wild, Wild Whovian for helping me with correcting spacing issues!

 **The Night of the Garbled Gordon**

There were many difficult, disliked and even tedious tasks to be dreaded by an agent on President Ulysses Grant's Secret Service. Dining in the legendary Diamond Room of the fabulous Fairspring Hotel wasn't one of them. And while James West and Artemus Gordon might have had more delightful bodies to guard this close to Washington's fine bevy of society belles, they had no complaints about their present charge. Diplomatic attaché Evan Reilly wasn't just diplomatic – he was hilarious. Reilly had regaled the agents with jokes and stories so amusing that even the great, unflappable West had wiped tears of laughter from his eyes once.

"With _frogs_?" Arte roared as Reilly finished yet another tale. "Oh, I wish I could have seen that!"

"I would have liked to be there myself," Jim admitted, taking a long sip of his lemonade shandy. "I can see why you were chosen for this assignment, Mr. Reilly. If anyone can disarm the ambassadors with humor, it's you."

"I'm certainly going to try – and please, call me Evan," Reilly insisted. "I won't stand on ceremony with men who are willing to risk their lives to safeguard mine."

"You haven't so far, sharing our suffering as it were." Arte grimaced as he held up his own glass of shandy. The one unpleasant wrinkle in their current mission was the temperance restriction forced on them by the Undersecretary to the Secretary of State. One week earlier, a different pair of Secret Service agents had made a very public and very drunken spectacle of themselves in the heart of the Capitol. Now, to Colonel Richmond's shame and quiet fury, the Undersecretary had exerted his influence to insist that _all_ of the agents remain dry until the scandal, or at least the diplomatic conference, blew over. To Jim and Arte's surprise, Reilly had indeed offered to share in their suffering, drinking nothing stronger than shandy himself.

"I've kissed the Blarney Stone literally and figuratively, it's true," Reilly sighed and smiled. "But you're not a bad talker yourself, Mr. Gor-"

"Artemus, or Arte if you prefer."

"Artemus then," Reilly nodded. "I understand you're a thespian as well?"

"When time permits." It didn't permit often these days. "Someday when I'm ready, I may hand in my credentials and return to the stage."

"Sure you wouldn't want to consider working in my department? We could use a man like you."

"Alas, I am too sensitive a soul!" Arte exclaimed, ignoring the choking noise Jim made. "I prefer Hamlet, Macbeth and Titus Andronicus to the bloodthirsty world of diplomacy!"

"You're not far wrong about it," Reilly chuckled a little nervously. "But then, that's why you gents are here, isn't it?"

"Hopefully an unnecessary precaution," Jim reassured him. "We know the upcoming conference is important, but not cutthroat?"

Reilly was silent for a moment.

"I can't talk shop," the diplomat said at last. "All I can say is that there are some big changes coming in Europe. It's going to take a lot to prevent a powder keg."

"Secretary Fish says you're the man for the job." Jim raised his shandy glass and nodded his head in an unofficial salute. At that exact moment, Antoine, the Diamond Room's maître d came over to the table carrying a snifter filled with something that was _not_ lemonade. Blushing beet red, Antoine set the snifter down in front of Reilly.

"Monsieur Reilly," Antoine said with an apologetic side glance at the two Secret Service agents, "compliments of l'Hotel Fairspring, our very finest Armagnac '83, for our distinguished guest."

"Nearly 100 years old," Arte whistled, with a stare of undisguised envy. "That must be some spirit."

"Monsieur Gordon, Monsieur West," Antoine begged with a genuinely miserable voice, "I am so sorry not to offer . . . ." The maître d too had been instructed of the Undersecretary's orders and had already apologized profusely when serving them their shandies.

"Nothing to apologize for, Antoine." Jim waved away the stricken maître d's concern. "It isn't your fault – we won't hold it against you."

Antoine bowed and backed away from the table, still pink-cheeked with embarrassment. West was too much of a professional to let his own fury show. Artemus might regret more the loss of strong libation but Jim, like Colonel Richmond, burned with anger at the Undersecretary's high-handed, humiliating demands. As if the entire Secret Service should be treated like errant, irresponsible schoolboys because of the actions of two! Even President Grant – no teetotaler – had been annoyed, but hadn't wanted to make his Secretary of State's job any more difficult than it already was. He'd promised to make it up to 'his men' once the conference was over and the fuss had died down.

Absorbed by these thoughts as he watched the maître d's retreat, Jim was startled when he turned back toward the table. Reilly was looking at the snifter as if he'd just had a live rattlesnake placed in front of him.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

"Yes – no need to miss out on our account," Arte said. "A vintage like that is meant to be enjoyed."

But the diplomat had gone white as a sheet and his hands were trembling as he held them away from the snifter.

"I can't drink it," Reilly moaned. "I mustn't!"

The sudden change in his manner caused Jim and Arte to exchange knowing glances. They'd seen this behavior in others before. Reilly was no temperance fanatic, but it was clear now he'd had reasons other than solidarity for sticking to lemonade shandy. The cat was out of the bag, and Reilly wasn't going to shove it back in.

"I promised Molly," Reilly admitted. "Gave the stuff up years ago so she'd say yes. When I start, I can't stop and I mustn't start now!"

"Why not just refuse it then?" Arte asked. "Why not tell people you abstain? It's respectable."

"Not in my line of work it isn't." The diplomat shook his head. "A fellow can't afford to appear too prissy to the ambassadors. Or too weak. You don't know the lengths I go to misplacing or spilling my drinks. But something like this . . . ." He gazed around the magnificent dining room. "If I send it back, they'll be insulted. If I spill it they might send more."

For once, Arte's reflexes were even quicker than Jim's as he made a distracting flourish with one hand.

"Fear not, friend," he whispered to Reilly. "I shall save you from the demon rum!" He'd barely finished saying it and gesturing when the contents of the snifter disappeared. Reilly slumped back in his chair with relief.

"Thank you," the diplomat whispered.

"The pleasure is all mine," Arte chuckled. But his expression was slightly puzzled as he licked his lips. "Not quite as smooth as I would have thought, but still very good. Definitely not lemonade."

A more relaxed Reilly had no trouble pretending to be the satisfied celebrity guest when Antoine returned to collect the empty snifter. He even knew which characteristics of the Armagnac should be given fulsome praise and gave it. But to Reilly's gratitude and Arte's consternation, no offering of seconds arrived. The three men were just preparing to depart for their hotel rooms when a most unwelcome figure put in an appearance in the Diamond Room.

"Speak of the devil . . . ." Arte murmured, using an eye movement to direct Jim's attention behind him. Harold Wicket, Undersecretary to the Secretary of State was striding over to the table at a brisk pace. The Undersecretary's stiff posture, rapid stride and tart expression seemed as out of place in these splendid surroundings as his checked wool suit would have looked on an ancient Roman emperor. Jim stood up to intercept him, but Wicket ignored the agent and trotted around in a brisk curve to present himself to the attaché directly.

"Mr. Reilly," the Undersecretary sniffed, "I do hope you are being adequately looked after." Wicket stared down through his pince-nez with only a side stare at Artemus as though adequacy was hardly to be expected in this quarter.

"Everything has been more than satisfactory." Reilly gave the man a placid smile. "I am grateful for the arrangements."

"Good." Wicket coughed. "I don't need to tell you how important this meeting of the European powers is or how much the Secretary is counting on you."

"No. You don't." James West's voice came with a distant rumble of thunder in it as he addressed the Undersecretary's back. At the table, still seated, Artemus was matching Reilly's polite, pacific manner, but he sat up slightly straighter as he recognized the sign of a coming storm.

"Mr. West," Wicket said, coldly deigning to turn around. "I don't believe I was speaking to you."

"I don't believe you were either. Sir." Jim pronounced the last word as though it were something he'd just scraped off his boot. "I'm sure Mr. Reilly is more aware than anyone else here." _Including you_ , he wanted to say.

Wicket and West glared at each other for several seconds until Reilly yawned loudly and cut through the electrified atmosphere with a droll laugh.

"Gentlemen!" he said to both. "I'm really very tired and even a man needs his beauty sleep to look his best in the morning." He stood up and walked in between them, pausing long enough to force the two men to separate. "Mr. Gordon, are you coming?"

"Of course." Arte sprang up and took his partner none too gently by the arm. "Coming, James?" he asked, tugging hard and not giving Jim any choice in the matter.

When they were out of sight and earshot of Wicket, Reilly leaned over to Arte.

"That, times fifteen or perhaps twenty, is what I deal with on a regular basis."

"Hamlet, Macbeth, Titus," Arte replied. "Think about it."


	2. Mixed Messages

The hotel room that Jim and Arte had been booked to share next to Reilly's might not be quite as lavish as the attaché's. Still, like everything at the Fairspring, it was a cut above what they were used to. Jim wished he could enjoy it. He and Arte had checked this room – and Reilly's – for unwelcome intruders, faulty locks, secret passages and booby traps when they'd arrived and were in the process of doing it again. But Jim was still in a foul mood and it must have showed.

"Nancy," Arte sighed, "I wish you wouldn't sauerkraut the Undersecretary like that."

"What?" Jim asked. The words made no sense. "Did you just call me Nancy?"

"Certainly splat!" his partner protested. "I nesting pardonnez . . . ." The words trailed off and a strange, horrified look came over Arte's face as he heard what he was saying.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked, now alarmed. It was obvious that Arte wasn't.

"Panhandle haven," Arte said, trying again. "Smoking triplet calendar news!" Now his expression changed to one of outright panic – he knew he wasn't making any sense even to himself. He went pale and gripped Jim by the shoulders. "Explosion me! Bark!" he begged. "Nuevo!"

Jim led Arte to sit down on one of the chairs in the room, pushing back his own rising panic. He'd seen something like this only once before, and that wasn't encouraging. One of his childhood mentors had suffered a major apoplexy and that man's speech had become garbled like this. Was that happening to Arte now? Or had he been drugged, and if so with what? Would Jim be next?

"Take it easy, partner," Jim said, relieved to hear his own speech sounding normal. "We're going to get you to a doctor."

"Nostril!" Arte exclaimed. He tried to convey meaning with his hands, tracing a short, familiar shape in the air.

"Loveless?" Jim asked. "Maybe, but . . . ." Not that Dr. Miguelito Loveless wasn't capable of wreaking havoc like this, but it didn't seem like their archenemy's style. For one thing, the mad doctor usually went after West first. Besides, why here? Why now? Then another nasty idea came to Jim's mind. The Armagnac that hadn't tasted as smooth as it should have . . . the snifter that hadn't been intended for Arte at all . . . .

"Reilly!"

As soon as the name was out of Jim's mouth, Arte leapt up and both agents ran to check on the startled attaché.

"I'm perfectly all right," the amicable diplomat assured them. "Why?"

"Because we've got problems," Jim told him.

"Hairy buckets," Arte added glumly.

[-]

Several hours and doctors later in Washington D.C.'s best hospital, Arte was no better and Jim West and Evan Reilly no worse. A lot had happened in those hours. Other Secret Service agents had been dispatched to find out what they could about the vintage Armagnac served up at the Fairspring. Two more had been assigned to take over Reilly's bodyguard detail. Arte had been moved into a hospital room and Jim and Arte's belongings removed from the hotel and thoroughly searched. To Jim's annoyance, not only had Colonel Richmond been summoned, but Undersecretary Wicket was there, poking his upturned nose in as well.

"A fine mess the two of you have caused!" Wicket hissed in Jim's ear in passing.

One of the doctors present, a man Jim had seen visiting Richmond's headquarters more than once, but did not know, murmured something in Richmond's ear. Colonel Richmond motioned the assembled company – the doctor, Jim, Reilly, Reilly's newly assigned detail, and the Undersecretary into a meeting room on the ground floor of the hospital. No less a dignitary than Hamilton Fish, the Secretary of State, was waiting for them inside.

"It's as I feared, gentlemen," Colonel Richmond began as soon as they were seated. "Mr. Gordon has been given a dose of Babel toxin, one that was evidently intended for Mr. Reilly." The fact that Arte had swallowed the Armagnac had already been admitted by Reilly and Jim, though not the exact circumstances.

"Babel toxin?" Secretary Fish asked first.

The unnamed doctor came forward to explain.

"A newly discovered poison from the Amazon River basin," he told them. "One which we have seen employed on three other occasions in the past two years. It affects the ability to speak. Also the ability to read and write. It leaves a strong licorice scent on the breath of its victims, though it is almost tasteless and odorless when first employed, at least as far as we can tell. Fortunately, the plant that it is derived from is quite rare, so it cannot be used on a wide scale. But Mr. Gordon's symptoms are unmistakable."

The stricken agent hadn't been able to communicate using anything more than hand and eye gestures, which Jim understood better than anyone else. Jim had been so busy concentrating on those that he hadn't noticed the licorice smell.

"Is there an antidote?" he asked.

"There is," the doctor said. "Made from the same plant, so it is as rare or rarer than the poison. However, to be of use it must be administered within a very defined time period. Otherwise the effect of the poison becomes permanent."

"How long does Artemus have before that happens?"

The doctor shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

"We've only had three cases to study so far," he insisted. "That is hardly enough for-"

"How long?" Jim felt his fists clenching with frustration.

"Approximately seventy-four hours," the doctor muttered.

Jim did the calculation instantly. Three days – or less than that with the time that had already passed. Three days to find the cure – or else.

Colonel Richmond knew exactly where this was leading.

"Jim, we don't even know if a dose of the antidote _can_ be found in this city."

"Maybe not, but if it's with anybody, it'll be the person who poisoned the Armagnac, and we need to find that person anyway, so . . . ." Jim nodded toward Reilly. "Mr. Reilly, since you're in good hands . . . ."

The diplomatic attaché nodded.

"Of course, Mr. West. I wish you all the luck in the world, and I cannot say how sorry I am that Mr. Gordon-"

"Sorry!" Undersecretary Wicket interrupted him. "You should be thankful that it was only that Secret Service agent instead of you! We should all be thankful that it wasn't someone more important."

Jim's fists hardened into boulders at the end of his wrists. His eyes narrowed and . . . .

"Mr. Wicket – enough!" Hamilton Fish shouted at his Undersecretary and stepped between the man and West, as Reilly had done earlier. "You will wait for me in that office," the Secretary of State pointed to a side door leading off the conference room. "I want to have a word with you."

"But . . . ."

" _Now_ , Mr. Wicket! You can thank me for saving our tempers and quite possibly your jaw later."

The humiliated Undersecretary retreated to the indicated office and Colonel Richmond placed a restraining hand on Jim's shoulder to make sure that nothing other than Jim's glare followed. The other two Secret Service agents didn't move a muscle but their stares, like Jim's, seemed to be trying hard to burn a hole in the Undersecretary's back.

"I hope you can rein him in, Ham," Richmond whispered. "I might need Reilly's help with my crew."

"Man's as sour as an under-ripe gooseberry, I'll give you that. But he's the only one who can make hide or hair out of the damn filing system I inherited." The Secretary of State shuddered. "The last thing I need right now is hard feelings between us and the people trying to keep us safe." Fish nodded to West before following Wicket into the side office. "Best of luck to you, Sir."

Evan Reilly stayed behind in the main meeting room with his detail, looking miserable, as Colonel Richmond turned to depart with Jim.

"Jim, I'd like to-" The Colonel broke off abruptly as the two men almost walked straight into a familiar figure who'd been on the other side of the meeting room door. "Gordon!" he cried. "What the devil?"

The afflicted agent was no longer in hospital pajamas as when they'd left him, but stood fully dressed in a physician's outfit he'd no doubt 'borrowed' from some part of the hospital.

"We can hardly blame him for taking an interest, Colonel," Jim said, raising an eyebrow at his partner. "And I'll bet you heard every word of what was said in there, didn't you?"

Artemus had the good grace to look at least a little shamefaced as he twirled a stethoscope in between his fingers. But the worry underneath his normally lighthearted manner was evident as well.

 _He knows_ , Jim thought. _Three days._

"And I suppose you think I should just permit you to remain in the field in your condition?" the Colonel demanded.

Arte nodded, expression grave.

 _Yeah, he knows all right . . . ._

"Damn it, man!" Richmond spluttered. "You can't even talk! How do you expect to-"

"Mr. Gordon! There you are!" a worried feminine voice interrupted, and a nurse came rushing up to them. At least, judging from the uniform, she was a nurse . . . .

Then again, Arte was dressed as a doctor . . . .

One of the most gorgeous, curvaceous blondes Jim had ever seen – and he'd seen many, many of them – the nurse put a lovely hand on Artemus' arm.

"Mr. Gordon, shame on you!" this vision in form-hugging white linen scolded. "You're not supposed to be out of bed!" The nurse's hand reached up to gently touch Arte's forehead. "What if you have a fever?"

She did not appear even to notice Colonel Richmond and Arte's handsome partner standing there, so focused was she on her runaway patient. She didn't seem to notice Artemus' unauthorized wardrobe change for a few seconds. Then she frowned, although on her it was more of a pout.

"You're a very naughty man, Mr. Gordon." She batted her eyes at him. "Where ever did you get that outfit?"

"Menacing Carthage ambrosia," Arte told her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. She placed both of her hands on Arte's cheeks. "Poor, poor Mr. Gordon! Of course you can't tell me!"

Growing impatient, Colonel Richmond cleared his throat and snorted loud enough to get the gorgeous nurse's attention.

"Oh!" she said again, turning toward the Colonel and Jim. "Excuse me! Are you in need of a doctor? I'm afraid Mr. Gordon isn't one."

"No, Miss, ah?"

"Hesther," she introduced herself. "Hesther Simpson."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Simpson." Jim smiled and bowed courteously as the nurse noticed him for the first time. "I'm Mr. Gordon's partner, James West, and this is our commanding officer, Colonel Richmond." He made the introduction while Richmond continued to look somewhat flustered.

"Yes. Thank you, Jim," Richmond said, recovering. "Now, Miss Simpson, I'm afraid we need to have a word with your patient, even if he can't have a word back."

When Nurse Hesther made no move to leave Arte's side, Colonel Richmond cleared his throat again.

"In _private_ , Miss Simpson," he grumbled.

With a reluctant pout and a final pat on 'poor, poor' Mr. Gordon's arm, the nurse left to return to her duty station. All three men watched her go, Jim and Arte with unconcealed appreciation of the scenic view.

"Hesther, eh?" Jim whispered to Arte and grinned. "Well, at least if you wind up with an 'A' on your chest, people will think it's a monogram. First time I've heard a woman scold you for wanting to get _out_ of bed."

Arte snorted and grimaced.

" _Gentlemen_ ," Colonel Richmond brought them to attention once more, "if you are _quite_ done with bantering, I shouldn't have to remind you that time is short. Jim, we are also short-handed at the moment, but if you need a partner for this investigation . . . ."

"Colonel, I've already got one," Jim said, slapping Arte on the back.

"Are you sure, man?"

"Arte's gotten me out of too many scrapes to count," Jim nodded. "Whether he can talk or not, there's no one I'd trust by my side more."

"And you, Gordon?" the Colonel asked. "Are you up to this?"

Though his eyes had appeared ready to mist up at his partner's statement a moment before, Arte's response was a hammish smile as he struck a dramatic pose.

"Glebe!" he declared, pointing a finger heavenward. "Otter snack!"

" _What_?"

Jim smiled.

"I believe that's Arte's way of saying The Show Must Go On!"

"Well then," Richmond said, "I suppose I have no choice. And you were right, Jim. We have to find out who did this, especially before they succeed with another attempt on Reilly. There's a great deal riding on the conference, and too much, perhaps, on one man. Gentlemen," he gave them both a nod of dismissal. "Good luck."


	3. That Slinking Feeling

Jim and Artemus had gotten only a few hours of sleep, but they were used to that. With no time to spare, a few hours were all they could afford before they were back at the Fairspring, this time as investigators. Jim could sense Arte almost burning up with frustration as Jim asked all the questions for both of them. Jim was not a little frustrated himself. He wasn't a bad hand at this, but he wasn't the clever talker Arte was either. He knew there were questions Arte would've asked that he couldn't even think up right now. Arte tried to indicate ideas he had with hand gestures, but Jim couldn't understand all of them. Finally the two men agreed to split up for an hour to case the huge hotel separately – yes, to cover more ground, but also to avoid getting on each other's nerves.

 _Is this how it will have to be if we don't succeed?_ Jim wondered. He, the talker, Arte the strong and silent type? It was an uncomfortable role reversal for both.

"Find anything?" Jim asked as they met back up.

Arte nodded, expression grave. He placed a small photographic image on a table. The subject wasn't hard to recognize.

"Reilly," Jim sighed. There was hardly any reason for the diplomatic attaché to bring a photograph of himself to the hotel so . . . . "Someone was casing the Fairspring for him," he tapped the image, "using this to identify Reilly to co-conspirators. We're definitely looking for more than one man."

Arte nodded again.

"That doesn't bode well for his stay here. We'll have to inform the Colonel."

Arte pointed a finger at him.

"Okay, _I'll_ have to inform him," Jim agreed. Or perhaps Arte was just waiting impatiently for Jim's reveal. "Antoine has been pleading innocent to knowing the brandy was drugged. Says he doesn't have any idea who could have done it. The snifter was left on his tray in the kitchen with an instruction card to deliver it to our table. Since he often gets his orders that way, he didn't question it. But they've taken him off to the jail for more questioning anyway."

Arte shook his head and frowned. Both men had known Antoine for years when other assignments had brought them here on occasion.

"I don't think he's involved either," Jim said. "But the hotel management probably considers him expendable. They'll throw him onto the tracks to save themselves if we can't find the real culprit."

"Burgle his shorts," Arte agreed.

 _And we're going to have to find that cure before your mouth gets us both arrested . . . ._

With frustratingly few clues to go on, their next search took them to a not-yet-open-for-the-evening theatre. Reilly had told the agents only yesterday afternoon he had been given tickets to attend a performance with them the following night. If an unknown party or parties had been stalking Reilly, then they might have overheard. Or might have sent the tickets . . . .

Fortunately, Artemus' theatre obsessions meant that he knew the layouts and back entrances of almost every playhouse within a fifty mile radius of the White House. He'd performed at several of them and this one was no exception. The Modesto was empty right now and not destined to become a hive of activity again until four o'clock this afternoon. They had no trouble slipping in.

"What do you suppose we'll find here?" Jim asked, then was startled at how loud his words sounded in the empty space surrounding the stage. The acoustics didn't make stealth an easy proposition. If anyone was lurking in the shadows, Jim had just given the agents' positions away. Arte laid a cautioning hand on his arm – too late he thought – and was staring about. Had he heard something? Yes – now that Jim listened, he heard the sound too – the acoustics handicap worked both ways. A creak that sounded nothing like the skittering of a wayward rat came from somewhere up above them, but where? Jim flexed his wrist and felt the reassuring sensation of his sleeve gun popping into it. He and Arte both remained almost motionless, as silent as possible, while they stared up into the rafters and tried to pinpoint the source of the noise.

Another slight noise caused Arte's eyes to widen with alarm. He shoved Jim hard enough to send them both sprawling onto the floor of the stage just as a large sandbag crashed onto the boards, missing them by inches. With the wind knocked out of him, Jim had little time to react as another weapon clattered down to the stage next to them – a lit stick of dynamite!

[-]

Washington was shrouded in a damp, chilly fog with the occasional spatter of rainfall coming down – suitable weather for a city's Secret Service bureau to mourn in. The windswept streets this close to midnight lay nearly abandoned of their usual traffic. In the gutters a ripped front page of the day's newspaper with its notice of two men killed in an unexplained theatre explosion floated toward the sewer drain. Only the determined, the desperate or the destitute would be out on a night like this. But the nation's capital had always had its share of those.

In one windswept corner of a back avenue, a panhandler too elderly and feeble to compete with the younger beggars for a prime spot sat hunched on a large packing crate. Bearing the full brunt of the wind and any rain that blew under a meager awning, his trembling fingers held out his cup and his sign – I am def mute pleaz halp. The ink of the sign had already started to run, making it harder to read than its indifferent spelling did. The wretch had been there for a couple of hours, despite the attempts of a doorman at the nearby gentlemen's club to shoo him off. The old codger not only couldn't hear or speak, he apparently couldn't – or wouldn't – read or make sense of the doorman's hand gestures either. So, not wanting to continue a futile task on a night like this, the doorman had given up. Only the beggar, half hidden by alleyway clutter, remained as two men emerged from the gentlemen's club.

"Bother," one of the new figures muttered, hunching and pulling his coat tight against the rain while his companion darted his eyes around the darkened streets, nervous as a cat. This second figure spotted the beggar and frowned.

"Ahh, don't worry about him," the first man said. "Just some old duffer, can't understand a word we say anyway." The speaker shivered. "Anyway, can we head back to the docks now? Everything's going fine."

"Yessss," the second man drawled. "Just as it's gone already. Thank you for that observation."

"Hey – it wasn't my fault!"

"I didn't say it was. Yes, by all means scurry back to the wharf. I have some business to finish here."

Both men had become so wrapped up in this conversation that neither noticed the panhandler's hands had stopped trembling quite so much and that, underneath his gray, furry eyebrows were the sharp eyes of someone who was listening intently. The pair split up, one heading back toward the city's broad avenues while the other did indeed start scurrying in the direction of the riverfront. Unnoticed by then, the old beggar was already standing up and tearing off the pair of false eyebrows and grizzled beard. A side door in the alleyway opened quietly and a fourth man made his appearance in the shadows.

"Thanks for standing lookout," James West said as he walked out from behind the beggar's packing crate. The supposedly dead Artemus Gordon nodded, pointing in the directions the first two men had taken even as he was flipping the raggedy panhandler coat inside out to reveal a completely different, sturdier looking jacket on the reverse side. Jim handed Arte back the 'borrowed' stethoscope that had allowed him to hear a fascinating conversation inside the club. He wished he had time to tell Arte all about it, but there was no time and it looked like they'd be forced to split up again. With hand gestures, Arte indicated that he'd follow the man heading toward the wharf.

"Right," Jim said. "I'll trail our prime suspect and join you after Jeremy takes over for me." They'd had a close call back at the Modesto, diving into the under-stage after Jim pitched the dynamite stick as high into the mezzanine as he could. But now they had hopefully thrown a killer off their trail while gaining some backup from their fellow agents on their own hunt.

As the two Secret Service men went their separate ways and Jim maintained a discreet, in-the-shadows distance behind the man he was tailing, he had a harder than usual time keeping down worry as a distraction. Focus had always been one of his keenest assets, but so was observation. Observation had him worried. Arte had looked tired, more than his makeup job could account for, and he hadn't even _tried_ to speak for several hours. He was becoming downright grim.

Not that Jim could blame him. The clock was ticking faster now, they both knew it. Arte wouldn't die if they didn't find the antidote to the Babel toxin, but he would suffer a fate almost as dreaded by every Secret Service agent. He'd be crippled, no longer able to serve his country, at least not in the same way. Worse, he wouldn't even have his fallback career. He wouldn't be able to act anymore, wouldn't be able to read books or even enjoy conversations.

Damn it, they _had_ to find that antidote!

Then, as Jim kept his eyes on his elusive target, an even chillier thought came unbidden to his mind. _Arte couldn't call out to anyone for help either_ . . . . Jim shivered, only for a few seconds, but not from the cold. There _was_ one worse fear than death or disability for an agent – not being there for your partner when he needed you most . . . .

 _Focus!_

Jim obeyed his own command just in time to duck underneath the fist that came swinging at him. Honed reflexes took over and his own punch didn't miss. A chin and its owner went flying backward. Jim sidestepped a kick aimed at his midsection, and the kicker's foot smashed into the brick alley wall instead. The kicker fell down with a cry of pain. A third would-be attacker realized the element of surprise had been lost and attempted to flee only to be grabbed by Jim's iron grip on his grubby sweater. Jim yanked the bleary-eyed, terrified figure closer, prepared to interrogate him or fling him against his companions. But one good look – and a bad whiff of the attacker's breath – made him release the man in disgust. These weren't professional bully boys or henchmen. His assailants were drunken tramps looking for an easy target. No connection to _his_ target.

And as to _his_ target . . . .

Jim cursed silently while the released bum ran away and deserted his friends. There was no sign of the man Jim had been following anywhere. With so many buildings in this part of town, unless Jeremy Pike had picked it up already there might be no hope of finding the trace again. But hopeless or not, Jim set out to try. Less than two days remained, and failure was not an option.

Half an hour later, it became obvious that success was not an option either. Nothing to do now but head to the docks and hope Arte's search was going better. Assuming he could find Arte . . . .

Jim wasn't wearing any disguise himself as he made his way to the waterfront, just his usual blue suit. Again he kept to the shadows and as far out of the biting wind as possible. If he couldn't find Arte, maybe Arte would find him. The city's seaport was a warren of warehouses, sheds and small establishments of the less reputable sort – insufficiently or indifferently patrolled. It would be easy for any criminal conspiracy to find a hiding place here or board ship for a quick getaway from the law. Searching the entire wharf area might be hopeless too, but luckily Jim didn't have to. Almost as soon as he departed city thoroughfares for the grubby entrance to warehouse row, he picked up the breadcrumb trail Arte had left him.

Jim suppressed a grin as he saw the first sign his partner had left. In a jumble of wall scrawl and shallow knife-carved initials and love sentiments marking this coarser area of town, one large white chalk scribble stood out as much newer and brighter than the rest. An arrow-pierced heart read AG + LF, but instead of the arrow pointing downward and to the right as it did in most such drawings, this arrow pointed in a straight direction to the left. Jim immediately headed in that direction. Wherever Lily Fortune was, he hoped she appreciated Arte's sentiment. And at least his partner could still write that much.

The next clue was even easier to spot. In front of a shack that had a stock of weathervanes out front, one weathervane, stuck with a blob of some kind of putty, pointed in a different direction from all the rest. Jim followed. A directional pointer here or a chalk mark there, he had his path. One or two chalk marks, standing out amidst the older, duller ones were – like the first sign – imaginative enough to give him hope that Arte was keeping up his sense of humor at least. But time was still running out much too fast.

A chalk drawing of a smiling stick figure that caught Jim's attention had one finger on one arm pointing upwards diagonally. A finger on the stick figure's other hand was held over its grinning mouth. Jim looked up at a metal ladder attached to the warehouse the stick figure was pointing toward. Message received: climb up but be very quiet.

Jim had no trouble ascending to the roof without making a sound, or spotting his partner once he did so. Artemus was staring so intently at something through a skylight window that Jim could have snuck up on him easily, but knew better than to do so. It took him several seconds to get Arte's attention before he dared approach the skylight himself. In the dim illumination coming from the window, Jim noticed that Arte was looking more haggard than ever. Jim hadn't gotten much sleep in the past 48 hours – had Arte gotten any at all?

He didn't have much opportunity to wonder as he looked down at the scene that was keeping his fellow agent so riveted. They'd tracked a conspiracy to its lair all right. The warehouse below was a jumble of activity, but not the kind normally associated with the dockworks trade. A crew of two dozen men or more, several of them in old Union Army uniforms were adjusting and inspecting a trio of large, heavy cannons and stacking up artillery for them. The cannons were pointed at the harbor, where ships from several of the nations attending the conference were docked. How much havoc might those cannons be able to cause before they were silenced if this plot succeeded? Were there other warehouses here similarly equipped?

Jim was almost glad his own path had been diverted to the docks sooner than expected. Someone had to get a warning back to the President and Colonel Richmond as quickly as possible. Arte couldn't talk or write a message, but he could carry one well enough and lead soldiers back here to shut this operation down. Jim wasn't sure how any of this could help them find the antidote to the Babel toxin, but the stakes involved had just become much, much bigger than either agent's life. And as usual, they both knew it.

Jim was about to write out a message for Colonel Richmond using the pencil and paper he kept secreted in one of his pockets when he and Arte were both drawn to watch a new hubbub coming from below. A back alley-side door to the warehouse had been opened and two more members of the gang entered, dragging a struggling third man between them. From this high angle it was difficult to see faces, but as the door shut behind them, the prisoner's gag came loose and he cried out.

"Unhand me!"

Jim and Arte knew that clear-timbred voice. The prisoner was diplomatic attaché Evan Reilly. Before either agent could react to this turn of events, they heard another sound they recognized – a pair of revolver clicks. Someone had gotten the drop on them.

"Stand up very slowly, gents. Hands in the air," a voice commanded. Jim thought he recognized that voice too, though he couldn't quite remember from where.

He and Arte did as instructed. They had been followed onto the roof, and silently, by the two persons now holding guns on them. In the dim light it was difficult to make out the figures, but not the situation.

"Knickers!" Arte swore under his breath.

 _I couldn't have put it better myself,_ Jim thought . . . .


	4. The Life of Reilly

"You're alive!" Evan Reilly cried from the pole he was tied to as the two Secret Service agents were brought into his view at gunpoint. "Oh, thank heavens! The newspapers said-"

"Shaddup," one of his kidnappers backhanded the attaché across the face.

"Indeed," the very familiar voice of Undersecretary Harold Wicket drawled from a short distance away. "I find, Mr. Reilly, you have the most ill-timed sense of gratitude of any man I've ever known. First you express sorrow that you aren't the man poisoned the other night, and now you are grateful to see Mr. West and Mr. Gordon when you are about to watch them die."

"But why, man?" Evan Reilly shook his head, stunned. "Why are you doing all this?"

"So that the conference fails," Jim answered before Wicket could, fixing the Undersecretary with a stony stare. "That's your plan, isn't it, Mr. Wicket? To turn this week's gathering into a powder keg and then light the match?"

The Undersecretary frowned.

"You make it sound so crude, Mr. West, when I've gone to such an elaborate amount of trouble to stage everything. Preparations which you and your partner," Wicket scowled at Artemus through his pince-nez, "have bungled up miserably." The Undersecretary drew a small glass vial of pink liquid from an inner coat pocket and held it up to the light. "I don't suppose I'll be needing this any longer. Not that I had any intention of administering it to Mr. Reilly once the Babel toxin took effect anyway." He twirled the vial in between his fingers. "The least I can do is torment you with the knowledge of how close you were to your goal before I kill you both."

So there it was. The antidote. So close. There had to be a way to get it to Arte, if only they could keep Wicket talking . . . . Jim thought he had a way to do that. But it was Reilly who made the opening move.

" _You_ poisoned the Armagnac!" Reilly accused the Undersecretary.

"Not just the Armagnac," Jim said, again answering before Wicket could. "I didn't get the chance to tell Artemus all about the fascinating conversation I overheard in your little private club, Wicket." He turned to Arte while taking a side measure of the guns pointed at them. "Turns out our fellow agents had a little help getting so drunk last week. The Undersecretary had their drinks spiked and made sure the press was in the right place at the right time to witness the result."

As he'd been expecting, his pre-emption of the Undersecretary triggered Wicket's desire to talk. If there was one thing Jim had figured out about his enemies over the years, it was that they all loved the sound of their own voice. Wicket was no less determined to occupy the podium himself.

"Very good, Mr. West," Wicket conceded. "Perhaps the Secret Service has produced someone else with more than half a brain, besides your ex-colleague here." The Undersecretary gestured to one of the two men holding guns on them. Jim, seeing the man's face in the light for the first time, now realized why his voice had sounded naggingly familiar. Former Secret Service agent Tyler Brewster leered back at him. So, this is where ol' Turncoat Ty had wound up after being given the boot for bribery and theft. The man had been such an egotist, considered himself so indispensable to the Service, that he wouldn't be cashiered for such 'minor offenses.' Judging from his expression, Ty was enjoying his revenge now. And judging from the bruise on his chin and the shabby clothing, not all of the bums who had attacked Jim had been the genuine article.

"Mr. Brewster was most helpful in giving me details about Secret Service procedures," the Undersecretary continued.

"And by pure coincidence the agents you disgraced were the ones who testified against Mr. Brewster," Jim added dryly.

"A small matter," Wicket said. "What is not so small a matter is the manner in which your Mr. Gordon foiled my plan to discredit Mr. Reilly. It is _he_ who should have been left speaking gibberish by now."

"But why?" Reilly wailed, risking another backhanded slap from one of his captors. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Nothing to me personally," Wicket told him. "Other than being an annoyance. My aim, as West said, is to start fires and you've been a little too good at putting them out. But merely killing you might make you a martyr. I don't want that. I need to sow confusion – as much confusion as possible – and dropping you, with your vaunted verbal abilities, back into the conference as a disabled, unbelievable wreck serves that purpose much better."

 _Keep talking_ , Jim thought at Wicket as hard as he could while he tried to assess everything around him. Overconfident Turncoat Ty and his buddy were listening to their boss jabber, paying more attention to Wicket's words than they should have, and not enough attention to West and Gordon. If Jim and Arte had been careless, they had too – taking only the agents' most visible, obvious weapons. Jim still had his sleeve gun and several other items. Arte wasn't fully disarmed either.

"I went to a great deal of trouble to obtain the Babel toxin only to see it wasted." Wicket shook the vial of antidote and Jim's heart almost skipped a beat. "But now I've done what I should have in the first place, Mr. Reilly. I've asked a lot of questions about you, dug around in your sordid little past." An evil smile grew over the Undersecretary's face. "I have a much better way to deal with you."

The already pale attaché turned a shade paler and struggled against the ropes holding him as Wicket put the antidote back in his pocket and pulled out a much larger silver flask instead. Wicket shook this tauntingly too.

"I don't need Babel toxin, Mr. Reilly, do I?" Wicket crowed. "I don't even need the 190 proof canning alcohol I used on Hughes and Burton. A simple single malt in sufficient quantity should do."

Jim looked over at Arte carefully and saw his partner thinking the same thing that he was. After all these years they didn't need to talk to plan a course of action – small eye movements would do. Jim would try to take out Ty and his fellow gunslinger while Arte went after Wicket. They had to make their move very fast. Wicket was advancing on Reilly and the attaché sounded ready to faint.

"No! No – please . . . ." Reilly begged as Wicket began unscrewing the cap of the flask.

"For shame!" Wicket scolded, all the while grinning that evil grin. "Is that all the courage you've got? You need something to take the edge off if you're going to watch an execution . . . ."

The Undersecretary was reaching for Reilly's head with his free hand and holding up the flask with the other. Ty and his companion were watching the flask, not West. There would never be a better moment than . . . .

 _Now!_

With lightning reflexes, Jim lowered his right arm as the sleeve pistol snapped into his hand and he dropped Turncoat Ty with one shot. His second shot took down Ty's companion, but not before that man got off a shot of his own. Fortunately Arte ducked and the bullet only grazed his coat. But that gave Wicket time to duck too and Arte didn't manage to grab him. The wily Undersecretary tossed aside his flask and dodged behind the pole that Reilly was tied to.

Four shots left in his sleeve gun. Not enough to hold off a warehouse full of conspirators if they were armed too. And now, with Reilly in the way as a hostage, Jim saw Wicket drawing out a revolver of his own.

The Undersecretary wasn't grinning anymore. He appeared ready to say something more as he leveled his gun at West. Before he could pronounce anything or pull the trigger though, the gun was shot from his hand by another man who appeared in an open warehouse doorway.

"Looks like you fellows could use some help," Secret Service agent Jeremy Pike called out.

Arte nodded, grabbing a sword from the scabbard of one of the Union-garbed conspirators before sending the man sprawling with a kick and hurling one of his self-designed smoke bombs at a group of attackers. Jim had no time to reply himself while somersaulting for cover as bullets whistled over his head. From behind a barrel he managed to take aim and shoot at a marked sack of gunpowder on the far side of the warehouse. It exploded, taking four more conspirators out of action. But they weren't out of the woods yet. Jim had only three bullets left – no time to get the spare mini-revolver out of his bootheels, assemble and arm it now. Jeremy had apparently come on his own and had his hands full taking cover and taking down as many opponents as he could. How much ammunition did Jeremy have left?

Jim shot at another bag of gunpowder, but that one may have been damp and failed to detonate. Two bullets left. Hopefully the first explosion had been loud enough to draw some extra attention to the warehouse. None of them were going to be able to extricate themselves and go for help – at least not yet.

Slightly behind Jim and off to the side, Arte had a fight on his hands – or rather two fights. He might have been hoping to cut Reilly loose with the sword he'd grabbed, but now he was in a duel with two similarly armed opponents, parrying to protect himself and the attaché both. Exhausted as he was, Arte was still a better swordsman than either of his foes. But Jim saw a conspirator trying to take aim at his partner from a distance and used his second to last shot to take that man out before he could harm Arte. One bullet left.

Wicket . . . where the hell was Wicket? He was the one behind all this and he still had the antidote. From out of the corner of his eye, Jim spotted the Undersecretary climbing up a ladder to the warehouse's catwalk. Planning an escape or looking for something? They couldn't afford to find out the hard way. Jim dodged from behind the barrel to follow the odious official.

"Jim!" Jeremy called out a warning just in time for Jim to shoot another conspirator instead of being shot himself. No more bullets now and no time to grab another gun from one of the corpses. Jim ran to the ladder and started up. At least Wicket didn't appear to have any more firearms himself, but looks could be deceiving. Jim did still have his throwing knife, but he couldn't risk making Wicket plunge from the catwalk. Not with that fragile glass vial of pink liquid in one of his pockets . . . .

Wicket had no such reservations about Jim. As soon as he reached the catwalk and saw his pursuer he began jumping up and down as hard as he could, causing the ladder to shake. But Jim had faced rougher climbs many times before and just ascended all the faster. The Undersecretary's ploy cost him his pince-nez though. The little spectacles clattered to and then through the catwalk to land somewhere below.

How well could Wicket see without them? Were the glasses a snooty affectation or did he really need them? Behind Wicket, Jim could see what the Undersecretary might have been aiming for – a door in the side wall, leading to another warehouse perhaps. Could Wicket still see the door too if he dared to turn his back on Jim?

No one – friend or foe – had followed Jim up the ladder, but the sounds of gunfire underneath had died down. Hoping Wicket was blurry-eyed, Jim risked a quick glance down. Arte had evidently skewered one of his opponents and sent the other one fleeing without his sword. Arte was cutting through the ropes tying Reilly while Jeremy covered them both with a gun in each hand. The rest of the conspirators, from what Jim could see, were dead, wounded or fled.

"Give yourself up," Jim said to Wicket. "It's over."

"Over?" the Undersecretary laughed. "It's never over, Mr. West. I should think you would realize that by now. Even if you score a temporary, pathetic victory, my side will ultimately win the day."

"And what _is_ your side?" Jim asked, cautiously reaching for the throwing knife. There was something gleeful, zealous and not entirely sane in the cast of Wicket's features. Again, Jim knew his best hope was to get the Undersecretary talking. "Who are you working for?"

"Humanity!" Wicket shouted. "The advancement of the human race through combat! Have you read the works of Dr. Darwin, Mr. West? Do you understand about survival of the fittest?"

 _He's mad_ , Jim realized. _Completely mad . . . ._

But definitely fond of the sound of his own voice.

"Peace makes us weak," Wicket spat. "It is war that makes us strong! War that separates the wheat from the chaff! War that inspires our greatest inventiveness! Which is why we need more of it!"

 _He's like the anti-Reilly_. Jim wondered why he hadn't made the connection before. It was no accident that Wicket rubbed everyone the wrong way – it was very, very deliberate. Where Evan Reilly used his gifts to reduce tensions, Wicket created conflict, encouraged it, welcomed it . . . . That's why Wicket hated the attaché so. Killing Reilly, making him a martyr would never be enough. The Undersecretary had to ruin Reilly utterly and undo everything Reilly worked for. Undo peace itself.

"So that's why you want the conference to fail."

"It _will_ fail!" Wicket vowed. "I'll make sure of it!"

The Undersecretary seemed rooted in place, entranced by his own inner vision and words. Jim risked another glance down to the warehouse floor below. Artemus, Jeremy and a freed Reilly had grabbed onto one of the cannons and were struggling to turn it toward the other two. Jim knew what they had in mind. It might just work, but it didn't give him much time to reason with a madman. Or kill one if need be.

"What makes you so sure you're going to get the chance?" Jim asked.

Wicket's answering smile wasn't nice.

"Because I've got something you want, don't I, Mr. West?"

The Undersecretary reached into his jacket and West drew his throwing knife even quicker and prepared to use it. But what Wicket pulled out wasn't a weapon, it was the vial of antidote.

" _This_ is why you are not going to stop me from leaving," Wicket said, twirling the stoppered vial between his fingers. "Given the choice between apprehending me or retrieving this medicine, I already know which alternative you'll pick. You could be the strongest, fittest survivor of them all, but your sentimentality makes you weak." The Undersecretary chuckled. "And with the knowledge I've gleaned from the State files, I won't have trouble starting other fires elsewhere. Everything leads to war, Mr. West. I'll win."

Jim felt frozen in place now himself, blood running ice cold. Until that last boast, he'd have bet Wicket was right about his choice too. Saving Arte. But at this cost? Letting a man get away who could start wars? War wasn't an abstraction to West – he'd fought in one of the worst of them all. Fought for a good and just cause that he'd believed in, but that didn't mean he'd relished it the way Wicket and his followers might. Jim had seen the conflict between the states at its ugliest. There was nothing glorious about the sound of men screaming as their limbs were blown off or sawed off, nothing triumphant about the unidentified bones and skulls that still turned up in fields and forests from Pennsylvania all the way down to the Gulf. How many more people would die if Harold Wicket got away?

 _I'm sorry, Arte_ , Jim thought as he prepared to throw the knife. But in the split second of hesitation before the blade left his fingers, the vial of antidote went slipping out of Wicket's grasp, spinning downward toward the catwalk's surface as both men heard Arte's urgent yell below:

" **COFFEE HORSE!** "

Jim's reflexes took control and he dived for the catwalk, snatching the spinning glass vial from the air as he did so. He barely had time to brace himself before the concussive blast of the one cannon being fired at the other two shook the entire building. He knew the sound of Arte's warnings. He'd have recognized the command to Get Down! if Arte had yelled it in Ancient Egyptian.

But Wicket's reflexes weren't as good as Jim's and he hadn't understood what that yell meant. He might have been reaching for the vial or for the door behind him, but the effect was the same: Wicket had been standing up not holding onto anything when the blast rocked the catwalk, almost tearing it loose from its moorings. He was thrown over the railing to land with a thud below.

Jim's ears were still ringing and the catwalk was swaying ominously as he sat up, barely daring to look at the object now clenched in his hand in place of the knife. As gently as possible, he put the vial of antidote in his jacket pocket and began to crawl back toward the ladder. Beneath him, through the metal slats, he saw Jeremy Pike standing up from where he'd shielded Evan Reilly with his own body. Jeremy helped Reilly up from the floor next. But where . . . ?

Jim held his breath for a moment as he saw Artemus lying on his back about ten feet behind the smoking cannon. Arte must have been the one to fire the cannon, but the recoil had sent him flying. He wasn't moving. Jim almost dislodged the ladder trying to hop onto it too quickly. He had to force himself to climb down at a speed that wouldn't tear it loose.

By the time Jim made it back down to the warehouse floor, Jeremy and Reilly were already at Arte's side trying to help him sit up. His partner was groaning and moving a little, but looked like he might pass out at any moment.

"Not yet you don't!" Jim demanded. He took over Reilly's place and removed the vial of antidote from his jacket, carefully taking off the stopper. "Time to take your medicine, partner!"

With some help from Jeremy tilting Arte's head back, Jim poured the pink liquid down the back of Arte's mouth and got him to swallow. The stuff must have been foul tasting – Arte grimaced as it went down. But realizing what it was, he managed to give Jim a tired, grateful smile. The Babel toxin hadn't taken effect immediately and the cure evidently didn't either.

"Blandishment," Arte rasped. "Cargo."

"You're welcome," Jim told him just before the exhausted man lost consciousness.

As he and Jeremy lifted Arte up to carry him out, Jim got a last look at the wreckage they were leaving in their wake. Other authorities would be here shortly. If the explosion of a black powder sack and gunfire hadn't alerted them, then the firing of one cannon and the shattering of two others would. The dead or broken bodies of men who thought war was a glorious thing lay all around the warehouse, Harold Wicket's corpse among them.

"Looks like Secretary Fish is going to need a new file clerk," was all Jim could say through his own dry mouth as they left.


	5. A Scrabble for the Exit

Late in the afternoon of the following day, Jim was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he entered the hospital that Artemus had been returned to. He'd wanted to get here sooner, but his own body had demanded at least _some_ rest. His meeting with Colonel Richmond, Secretary Fish and President Grant over what had happened had lasted well into the early morning hours, and for Jeremy too. Some of Wicket's co-conspirators were still being rounded up, but at least Antoine's innocence had been proven. So had that of the Secret Service agents set up by Wicket and Turncoat Ty Brewster. Some of the conspirators who'd only been wounded had started to sing like birds already, most of them war hero wannabes who'd never seen much actual combat.

 _Survival of the Fittest_ , Jim thought. _Right._

Jim quickened his pace as he headed toward Arte's hospital room. He'd been assured the night before that his partner's injuries weren't serious. But he still didn't have answers to the questions that most keenly burned within him. Had the antidote worked? Had they gotten it in time? Would Artemus still be able to work for the Secret Service?

To Jim's surprise, Frank Harper was waiting outside Arte's hospital room when he arrived. Frank and _his_ partner had been assigned as Evan Reilly's third pair of bodyguards the night before. Was Reilly here too? Frank nodded in response to the question.

"Got here about half an hour ago," Frank said. "Mr. Reilly insisted. He wanted to thank Gordon for saving his life before the conference starts. Heard they're letting the patient out too, only . . . ."

"Only what?" Jim asked, feeling a slight shiver as Frank's voice trailed off.

Frank didn't answer and his face remained impassive as the door to the hospital room opened and Frank's partner slipped out, followed by Reilly and Artemus, who was fully dressed already. To Jim's relief, Arte looked a world better than he had when laying on a stretcher several hours earlier. But what about . . . ?

Artemus cracked a broad smile as he saw Jim standing there.

"Pamela!" Arte exclaimed, "Chair wrench dusting waffle!"

 _Oh, no!_ The antidote hadn't worked! They _had_ been too late! Jim felt his mouth turn dry as dust all over again as he stared at Artemus in horror. But . . . wait . . . . Why was Arte grinning so? And why was Reilly covering his hand over his own mouth? And why were the other two Secret Service men struggling to keep straight faces?

Arte was the one who started laughing first and shaking his head.

"James, my boy," he chuckled, "I wish we had Mr. Brady here to immortalize that look on your face!"

The others gave up all pretense of stoicism too and began laughing at the practical joke. Among the Secret Service, it was famously difficult to put one over on the great James West.

"You're all right?" Jim asked, grabbing Arte by the shoulders. "You can talk?"

"Thanks to you," Arte admitted, sobering up.

Frank snorted.

"According to the doctors he's been doing it non-stop since he woke up this morning. That's why they're letting him go so soon – they'll be glad to see him leave!"

Reassurance flooded through Jim, and along with it realization.

"You . . . _did_ just call me Pamela, didn't you?" he growled.

Arte yelped, shook himself loose from Jim's grip and made a dash for the door, as Evan Reilly doubled over with laughter. But Arte's escape route down the hallway was cut short as he nearly crashed into the lovely Nurse Hesther. The curvaceous damsel of the white linen had just entered the corridor alongside a doctor. The mere sight of her was enough to make both Arte and Jim stand at attention and suck their breath in.

"Oh, Mr. Gordon!" Nurse Hesther cooed. "You are looking so much better! And my fiancée Dr. Nelson says you can even go home today!"

"Er, ah, fiancée?" Arte stammered, his face suddenly as crestfallen as Jim's had been a few minutes before.

"Yessir!" the doctor smiled. "Miss Simpson agreed to do me the honor just last week. And speaking of honor," the doctor said, holding out his hand to shake Arte's, "may I just say what a privilege it is to learn that my very own coat and stethoscope were used in an honest-to-gosh Secret Service operation?"

Arte shook the doctor's hand numbly, appearing to be at a loss for words all over again.

"Oh, uh, anytime," he finally managed to say. "And thank you as well."

Arte let his breath out and allowed his shoulders to sag a bit as he and Jim watched Dr. Nelson, along with Nurse Hesther's beauteous backside, walk away down the hospital hallway.

"Fiancée," Arte sighed. "Now how do you like that?"

This time it was Jim's turn to laugh as he clapped his fellow agent on the shoulder. Some things, at least, were getting back to normal.

"Come on, Artemus. I'll buy you a shandy . . . ."


End file.
